He said he didn’t really know who I was and that scared him.
I didn’t understand, wasn’t I all in here on display?
He looked and then he really didn’t understand.
Told me it wasn’t a diary, called me darling and I missed that in my stubbornness.
He was right.
I am sorry.
I didn’t understand.
I do now.
I don’t believe in apologies without follow through.
I will now try to get through this without quotes and curse words.
And that will be the end of it.
Everything I said before is what I was. I am not that girl anymore.
The blog and my job were fast food for my ego. I never liked her, time to starve her out.
I am turning 42 in 9 days.
5’8”.
I don’t know how much I weigh, I just know when those jeans fit and when they don’t.
My hair is brown and grey but I dye it black and white. I have a Samson complex about my hair, I can’t cut it short and cringe at trims.
I have worn glasses since age 2. Had a bowl cut. I am missing a boob. A lot of people told me I was ugly. I believed them.
I got my boobs done, grew out my hair, got contacts. People tell me I am pretty and I rarely believe them. Except some moments when I get that selfie juuuuuuust……right. They are fleeting and the photos filtered.
I am tired of filters. The pic up is just me, no make-up. Fresh out of the ocean.
I would rather be called clever or kind. Things I can control.
I am convinced people only notice me because of my tattoos and a lot of the time I wish I didn’t have them for that exact reason.
My favorite tattoo is never displayed in public, I got it for us/him alone.
I like long skirts and dresses, or jeans and a t-shirt. Tight things make me feel vulnerable and constricted.
Unless I am with a man, and I feel safe…then I want him to be proud to be with me.
I’m often proud of others, rarely myself.
Sometimes I get dressed up. Usually for brunch with my friends.
I have never stood in line or gone into a nightclub but I’ve stood in the same line 9 times to ride the same roller-coaster.
I hate shoes, I would rather be barefoot. But heels sometimes make me feel sexy and powerful.
I like getting my hair and nails done because it feels nice to be touched. I don’t complain if they don’t do it how I asked. I always tip.
I wear make-up because I don’t like my skin. I love it when my face clears and I don’t have to, I know it’s a catch 22.
I don’t know how to conture and I am okay with that. I can’t tell the Kardashians apart and I am really okay with that.
I don’t really watch TV. But I binge watch Netflix from time to time.
I tried yoga, liked it haven’t been back, yet.
My body and I have learned to get along.
I hate my stomach, I have a really bad tattoo. I don’t envy women as a rule, but I covet their bare-skinned bellies.
I don’t understand how some women pay more for a purse than I paid for my car. They don’t understand that I have paid more for my tattoos than their cars, so we are even.
I have never paid more than $200 for anything I have ever worn. Except a vintage Afghani ring. I wear it and second-hand dresses to weddings.
I’ve never been a bridesmaid, never a bride. I have been proposed to 5 times it never worked out. It’s alright. I have left behind every piece of jewelry my exes gave me. The only ring I regret losing was my mothers. I still haven’t forgiven myself for that. I was young and foolish.
I have a handful of friends that I have known since I was young. And I am constantly amazed they stuck around. I was a bad kid and a worse friend. Haven’t forgiven myself for that either.
As long as I can understand someone else’s behavior, I forgive them.
I have good friends now that know I like to be left alone. I love them for that.
Understanding means more to me than anything.
I would rather be alone than with the wrong people.
I learn things slowly and then all at once. I have to try to learn anything. I can’t just read it or be told something and know. It’s frustrating. I make a lot of mistakes.
I have one child and lost 7 before they figured out that complications from the one that made it, made it so I couldn’t have more. I stopped trying.
I have several step kids. Not because I couldn’t have more of my own but because someone has to love them. I am someone.
I help arrange fosters and transport for shelter dogs. Someone has to help them. I am someone.
I stop and move turtles off the road and brake for deer. Someone has to. I am someone.
Everything I learned about how to treat beings smaller than me I learned from my grandfather. He walked across the road 365 days a year for several years to look after a dog chained in a backyard. I went with him.
My favorite number is 242 because it was my grandparents address and the happiest times of my childhood were in that house, with them across the street from that dog. Her name was Sheba and she was always dirty.
I was always dirty too, I was a tomboy. I played at the pond and climbed trees. I still like being dirty, something satisfying about well-earned sweat. I hated baths as a kid, still do. I would rather be dirty, or swimming or both.
I love being naked in the sun and skinny dipping at night. As long as no one is watching. I was okay being naked at work, as long as I had heels on. Something about them made it okay.
I would rather have a picnic in the sand and sunshine than eat a fancy dinner.
I am anorexic but I love food, it’s just that when I get upset I choke. I love cooking. I put love into the food when I cook for people I care about. I can’t bake, but I always want dessert.
I mix up desert and dessert in my head and choose and chose. I am good with my twos, to’s and too’s. There, their, they’re.
I could and have walked along beaches for hours picking up rocks. I find it soothing and humbling knowing they were once mountains and I can hold them. I bring a lot of rocks home and I can tell you when I got them and from where.
I can and have spent hours in thrift stores touching things that belonged to other people. I find it comforting to know that they were once loved by someone. I bring a lot of clothes home and I can tell you when and where I wore them.
I don’t believe in God but I believe in miracles.
It will be a miracle if he talks to me again.
I love thunder and lightning and watching the sky.
And him.
I believe in love at first sight. My dad saw my mom and knew he was going to marry her. I believe that love requires effort. When my dad got back from Vietnam he disappeared to California, my mom drove out west with two friends and brought him home.
She lost a lot of babies before she had me. She kept trying.
I am someone’s mother, daughter, sister, ex and friend. I tried to please everyone for a long time by trying to be normal. I stopped doing that and some of them stayed.
My son is happier now that I am happy. He tells me this often and it makes me happy. He isn’t normal either, I never asked him to be. I only ever ask others to be themselves.
I have been a bartender a waitress a cook a gas station attendant a secretary an events coordinator a stripper. I am not those things. At every job I ever had my happiest moments were scribbling words on napkins and post-its. I always wanted to be a writer. I can write now.
I have whatever math dyslexia is called. I got diagnosed when I was 21 and a nice man helped me retrain my brain. I can add now.
I am funny about numbers, I stuck to word counts before, 555, 777, 1010 was my favorite and 1111 if I was wishing hard on something. I am struggling to not look right now, I want this out, all of it. So I can work on what I want to work on.
I write erotica like I was born to do it. I have a pen name because I don’t want to be famous, or shame my parents and family.
I am overly sexual and until a few years ago I was ashamed of this.
That’s the thing about being strange. Sometimes it takes someone coming along and confessing their strange to realize you can find home in another person.
I ran away from home.
I have never liked running. Funny considering how often I have.
I have moved over 37 times in 28 years and never found home. Its not a metaphor, I moved a lot.
I am moving again, in with a room-mate. Save some money so I can stay away from work and write more. She gets me out of the house and I keep her home. It’s a good balance.
She doesn’t talk much when I am writing.
She knows how I take my coffee.
Milk, sugar and quiet.
I love her.
I love our house.
I am starting to love myself.
I found my voice on Facebook, shouted it from the rooftops with the blog. Used both for good or evil depending.
I am happier with my life in general than I have ever been.
But I would let all of it go in a heartbeat to be with him and learn how he takes his coffee.